


Oh, Marie.

by thinkpink20



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Hamburg, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:46:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul meets one of John's 'little friends'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, Marie.

There is a woman in Hamburg named Marie. Paul is almost completely sure that isn't her real name, but she definitely isn't German; her accent is less clipped than the strong Germanic vowels they have become used to and sometimes he hears her rabbiting away in a language he can't even pick words or phrases out of. Wherever she's from, she seems a long way from home.

She has an air about her, a sort of sadness. But then a lot of the prostitutes they work alongside in the Reeperbahn have that - the stench of death, George calls it, which makes no sense really because if anything they always smell of lavender and pretty things, like they've made an effort for you. Of course if you get them towards the end of the night (and they inevitably do) it's more cigarettes and a whiff of something vaguely manly, but Paul supposes that's just part of the job. They all have sad eyes though, even the ones who put on a show and curl around you like a snake unleashed from a cage; they all have a story behind them. It's why they're here, and not at home with husbands or kids. Some of them do have husbands too, you can tell, can see them slipping a ring off their finger and edging it into their handbags at the beginning of the night, for safe-keeping.

But Marie is different. She doesn't just seem sad, she seems _lost._ Paul vaguely thinks this is why John likes her so much.

They've struck up a friendship - or at least as far as any prostitute and client can _ever_ have a friendship. Paul knows this because although he's never actually spoken to her, he sees Marie turn up at the end of the night sometimes, just as their set is finishing, and she never seems to be watching the clock. She sits at the back, misty amongst the haze of sweat and smoke and body heat that hangs in the air at the club at nearly four in the morning. Her eyes might be sad, but they're beautiful too - he wonders if she likes John the way John clearly likes her. He wonders if she _fancies_ him, wonders whether any of it is ever done for pleasure as well as money. John always comes back the next morning considerably less rich, so at least he's still paying her, anyway.

Paul doesn't quite trust her. He doesn't know why - it's not because she's a whore, he's been with plenty of them himself and he falls asleep in their dingy rooms with his money stuffed in his pocket and none of them have ever taken it - but it's just a feeling he gets. He feels like there's something different about her, but he isn't sure what. Her clothes are better than most that work around here, and her nails are always impeccable - that strikes him as odd, a working girl who looks after her nails. It's all these things that add up to make him confused, though he knows it's stupid to judge; learned that long ago.

John is besotted with her. He once spent all the money he had saved up on two nights and a day with her, then couldn't afford to put stamps on any of his letters to Cyn for a week - Paul paid the postage, knowing how hurt Cyn would be if she didn't get her daily dose of mail. John also once bought Marie a bracelet; just a cheap little thing with stars on the edges, but still it was a gift. Paul had tried to look busy on stage, packing away his guitar as he watched John hand over the present in the far corner of the fast-clearing club. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but found himself mildly surprised when Marie looked up, touched John's face very gently with the palm of her hand and kissed him.

Whores don't kiss.

But then it isn't a _relationship_ either. John isn't cheating on Cyn; Paul would know if John was in love - he knows the signs, infatuation, constant touching, sloppy song writing, words of love. People think John is too tough for all that kind of thing, but Paul knows different - he's seen the hearts doodled on John's sketchpads and the carved 'John loves Cyn' into the side of his guitar case. He saw the Christmas card from their first year (Cynthia showed it to him one day, proudly) and he hears the sloppy things John says on their rare phone calls home, even when John tries to keep his voice down. So he's not made of stone, and Paul would know for sure if there was someone new on the scene; if there is one thing John has always been it's honest. And transparent. He's there laid open like a book, if only you stare for long enough.

So Paul wonders what it can possibly be. Sex, yes - he heard them once, or at least heard the bed in the next room even if the shouts were muffled. And a little bit of shared experience being far away from home, maybe - they all feel that - but there is something Paul can't put his finger on. Not only about _Marie,_ but about _John and Marie._

And deep down, Paul doesn't like that. He hates not knowing everything about John. He hates not being privy to something, it makes him feel (shamefully) just like George or Pete or one of the others. He wants to be like Stu (has always wanted the relationship Stu has) and they _have_ been getting there. They _have_ been getting closer; edging slowly towards each other in the unspoken way friendships sometimes do, linking tighter over intangible things. But still John never talks about Marie - will boast loudly to George about the other girls (two girls at once sometimes, which Paul worries will cause George's brain to explode) and he even brings them back to their horrible little digs then keeps everyone awake for a suitable amount of time for a teenage boy.

But never Marie.

When John goes with Marie, it is always to her place. Paul knows vaguely where it is, once had a go with Marie's friend in the room next door, but he was drunk and doesn't remember the exact location. He suspects John has been there so many times he could find it in the pitch black, and that worries Paul too. Because if this isn't love and it isn't just sex, then what is it? Is she giving him something? Not that Paul would care, just perhaps want a bit of it for himself, but he'd still like to know. He'd like to know _everything_ about John, if John would kindly oblige. Because that's the sort of link Paul has with him; he can't let it go. Doesn't _want_ to let it go. John is different; Paul senses something underneath and desires desperately to know what it is. He thinks Stu knows, because of the way they sometimes talk to each other, like an old couple who have been married so long they've seen each other's smalls drying in the bathroom a hundred times and there is no mystery left. So if Stu knows, then Paul wants to know too. He hates being left out, hates being second best.

And the worst thing is, that whatever it is Paul _doesn't_ know about John, he suspects Marie _does_ know.

He can't think of anything else - can't explain away this thing they have any other way. It's like she knows John's soul - knows his one dark secret that he keeps pressed to his chest. That thing that you wake up in the night thinking about sometimes, the thing that worries you about yourself and that you can't _ever_ tell, but need to.

Paul thinks perhaps John has told her. Which is a dangerous business really, opening up your heart to whores on the Reeperbahn who'll only throw it all away. 

_But,_ Paul reminds himself, she _hasn't._ Marie is still there waiting some nights, is still dropping John off at the Seaman's Mission some mornings when he's meeting the rest of them for breakfast. And she's still neatly finger-nailed and pretty around the eyes, so it hasn't changed her much, this secret they share. It's crossed Paul's mind that perhaps it's something weird in bed (he once heard about a man who liked to have his dog watching him, knows there are all kinds of freaks out there) but surely anyone would do that? Even if John can't confess that to Cyn - pure, delicate, sweet little Cyn - then he could confess it to one of the other whores around here, get them all to do it on a regular basis. Paul once admitted he liked his hands tied; the woman didn't bat an eyelid at that, just laced him up to the bed.

And Paul doesn't really believe that anyway, that John is some sort of weird, kinky freak. Over-sexed, yes, slightly lecherous, yes, but not _perverse._ Not like _that._ So it must be something secret, private, sensitive.

Paul _hates_ being left out of the circle.

Then one night he is writing home to Dot, cross legged on his tiny bed in their shabby room, music thumping from the club downstairs and flashing red light from the club next door staining the walls every few seconds. He is just telling her yet another sordid tale cleaned up, when there is a knock at the door. No one knocks in a place like this, so he gets up and goes over, wondering if it's the club manager about to throw them out - wouldn't put it past him.

But instead it's Marie.

She looks oddly small and frightened in the dim light of the hallway, though her careful make up gives her a defiant look, like she's warning you she's stronger than you think. Paul thinks there is something beautiful about that.

"Can I help you?" he asks.

"Yes, is - " her accent is tight, angled and hardens her up, "Is John here?"

Paul shakes his head. "Sorry, he went out a few hours ago."

She seems instantly sad. "Stuart, then?" She asks, and Paul feels a spike of jealousy flare in his stomach - so John has told her about Stu, but not him.

"No, sorry." He wants to shut the door on her, jealousy turning to anger, but he doesn't have the heart. "Can I give him a message?"

She thinks for a moment. "No, just tell him Marie came to see him. And you are...?" She looks suddenly vulnerable, asking his name.

"Paul," Paul says, and catches an instant flicker of something in her eyes. Then suddenly he gets the strange feeling she is appraising him, looking him over, though her eyes don't move from his face.

"Ah," she says, the tiny curves of a friendly smile at her mouth, "So you are Paul. You look different up close - so far away from the stage, I mean."

It seems an odd thing to say, but clearly his name has been mentioned, at least once.

"You're a friend of John's," he says, not wanting to say the word 'whore' to her face. 

She smiles properly at that, and Paul can see that a few years ago (even though she's still young) and before her job had hardened her, she would have been quite stunning. "Something like that. And John, he ah..." She seems to search for a word, the way people do sometimes then they're translating in their mind. "He talks about you."

"Does he?" Paul asks, surprised into speaking and his shock clear in his tone. Oddly, her face seems to fall.

"You think he would not? You are his friend, yes?"

"Yeah, but..." Paul trails off, unsure of where to go. He doesn't talk about his mates to girls he pays for sex - doesn't talk much at all.

"He..." she thinks again, considering her words. "He likes you," she says. Then suddenly blushing, she looks away at her watch. "Excuse me, I am late for my friend."

Then just like that she is gone, the sad soles of her flat shoes slapping against the cold stone flooring of their building. Paul hears her go down the stairs, two at a time and quickly, as though there is a dragon at her back.

It is only when he has gone back inside, shut the door and returned to his bed, put pen back to paper to speak to Dot, that he realises what she means.

John has told Marie his secret, and now Paul knows too.


End file.
